Even when she’d won the quest,
even when she had the best,
even when the sparks burned bright,
never had she seen the light.
It wasn’t music, magic, or thrill,
it wasn’t victory won on a hill,
it wasn’t completion of soul or peace of mind,
it wasn’t an indisputable bind.
When you lay in bed, do you feel warm?
Do you see the sun amid the storm?
Do you bear the sweat of hard work and strife?
Do you conquer with stones he who holds the knife?
Pages of letters – I once read them.
Books on a shelf – I once wrote them.
Condemned to life of romance, life of these words,
Nothing to prove but a man who loved them.
I dreamed of veils to shield lack of purity,
I dreamed of dresses to hide tough skin,
I dreamed of lace to breathe the summer easily,
I dreamed of places I’d never been.
And now she’s running away,
running one, two, three, gone,
running away from the day,
running far after the sun shone.
What heroic quest it must had been,
had she not even known what she had seen.
What sparks that blinded her fear, and
what light that bound her here.